Classic Poem

Ten Measures for Lysidicë,
One for Euphrantë take;
Let Bacchus in the wine bowl be
Where now our thirst we slake.

And is my love proportioned so
As we the measures pour
That to Euphrantë once I go,
To the other ten times more?

Nay, though Euphrantë be but one,
Ten cannot match her even,
Pale as before their monarch moon
The countless hosts of heaven.